Si quid novisti rectius istis,
Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum
[If you have come to know any precept more correct than these,
share it with me, brilliant one; if not, use these with me] (Horace, Epistle I.6.67)
PART 1
1 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
2 Appear in writing or in judging ill;
3 But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
4 To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
5 Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
6 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
7 A fool might once himself alone expose,
8 Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
9 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
10 Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
11 In poets as true genius is but rare,
12 True taste as seldom is the critic's share;
13 Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
14 These born to judge, as well as those to write.
15 Let such teach others who themselves excel,
16 And censure freely who have written well.
17 Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
18 But are not critics to their judgment too?
19 Yet if we look more closely we shall find
20 Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind;
21 Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
22 The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
23 But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
24 Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
25 So by false learning is good sense defac'd;
26 Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
27 And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
28 In search of wit these lose their common sense,
29 And then turn critics in their own defence:
30 Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
31 Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite.
32 All fools have still an itching to deride,
33 And fain would be upon the laughing side.
34 If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
35 There are, who judge still worse than he can write.
36 Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd,
37 Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last;
38 Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
39 As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
40 Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle
41 As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
42 Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
43 Their generation's so equivocal:
44 To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require,
45 Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
46 But you who seek to give and merit fame,
47 And justly bear a critic's noble name,
48 Be sure your self and your own reach to know,
49 How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
50 Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
51 And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.
52 Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
53 And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit:
54 As on the land while here the ocean gains,
55 In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
56 Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
57 The solid pow'r of understanding fails;
58 Where beams of warm imagination play,
59 The memory's soft figures melt away.
60 One science only will one genius fit;
61 So vast is art, so narrow human wit:
62 Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
63 But oft in those, confin'd to single parts.
64 Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before,
65 By vain ambition still to make them more;
66 Each might his sev'ral province well command,
67 Would all but stoop to what they understand.
68 First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
69 By her just standard, which is still the same:
70 Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,
71 One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,
72 Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
73 At once the source, and end, and test of art.
74 Art from that fund each just supply provides,
75 Works without show, and without pomp presides:
76 In some fair body thus th' informing soul
77 With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
78 Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
79 Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
80 Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,
81 Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
82 For wit and judgment often are at strife,
83 Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
84' Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
85 Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;
86 The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
87 Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
88 Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd,
89 Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd;
90 Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd
91 By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.
92 Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,
93 When to repress, and when indulge our flights:
94 High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,
95 And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
96 Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
97 And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
98 Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n,
99 She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
100 The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
101 And taught the world with reason to admire.
102 Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
103 To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd;
104 But following wits from that intention stray'd;
105 Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;
106 Against the poets their own arms they turn'd,
107 Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.
108 So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
109 By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
110 Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
111 Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
112 Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
113 Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they:
114 Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
115 Write dull receipts how poems may be made:
116 These leave the sense, their learning to display,
117 And those explain the meaning quite away.
118 You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
119 Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character;
120 His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page;
121 Religion, country, genius of his age:
122 Without all these at once before your eyes,
123 Cavil you may, but never criticise.
124 Be Homer's works your study and delight,
125 Read them by day, and meditate by night;
126 Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
127 And trace the Muses upward to their spring;
128 Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
129 And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
130 When first young Maro in his boundless mind
131 A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
132 Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
133 And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
134 But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
135 Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
136 Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design,
137 And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
138 As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
139 Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
140 To copy nature is to copy them.
141 Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare,
142 For there's a happiness as well as care.
143 Music resembles poetry, in each
144 Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
145 And which a master-hand alone can reach.
146 If, where the rules not far enough extend,
147 (Since rules were made but to promote their end)
148 Some lucky LICENCE answers to the full
149 Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
150 Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
151 May boldly deviate from the common track.
152 Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
153 And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
154 From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
155 And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
156 Which, without passing through the judgment, gains
157 The heart, and all its end at once attains.
158 In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes,
159 Which out of nature's common order rise,
160 The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.
161 But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade,
162 (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made)
163 Moderns, beware! or if you must offend
164 Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end;
165 Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need,
166 And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
167 The critic else proceeds without remorse,
168 Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
169 I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
170 Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.
171 Some figures monstrous and misshap'd appear,
172 Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
173 Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
174 Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
175 A prudent chief not always must display
176 His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array,
177 But with th' occasion and the place comply,
178 Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.
179 Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
180 Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
181 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands,
182 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands,
183 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage,
184 Destructive war, and all-involving age.
185 See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring!
186 Hear, in all tongues consenting pæans ring!
187 In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
188 And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind!
189 Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days;
190 Immortal heirs of universal praise!
191 Whose honours with increase of ages grow,
192 As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
193 Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
194 And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
195 Oh may some spark of your celestial fire
196 The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
197 (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights;
198 Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
199 To teach vain wits a science little known,
200 T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!
PART 2
201 Of all the causes which conspire to blind
202 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
203 What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
204 Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
205 Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
206 She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
207 For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
208 What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind;
209 Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
210 And fills up all the mighty void of sense!
211 If once right reason drives that cloud away,
212 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day;
213 Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
214 Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.
215 A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
216 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
217 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
218 And drinking largely sobers us again.
219 Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
220 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
221 While from the bounded level of our mind,
222 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
223 But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
224 New, distant scenes of endless science rise!
225 So pleas'd at first, the tow'ring Alps we try,
226 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
227 Th' eternal snows appear already past,
228 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
229 But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
230 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
231 Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,
232 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
233 A perfect judge will read each work of wit
234 With the same spirit that its author writ,
235 Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find,
236 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
237 Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
238 The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
239 But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
240 Correctly cold, and regularly low,
241That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
242 We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
243 In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
244 Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
245 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
246 But the joint force and full result of all.
247 Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
248 (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!'
249 No single parts unequally surprise;
250 All comes united to th' admiring eyes;
251 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
252 The whole at once is bold, and regular.
253 Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
254 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
255 In ev'ry work regard the writer's end,
256 Since none can compass more than they intend;
257 And if the means be just, the conduct true,
258 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
259 As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
260 T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:
261 Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,
262 For not to know such trifles, is a praise.
263 Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
264 Still make the whole depend upon a part:
265 They talk of principles, but notions prize,
266 And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.
267 Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say,
268 A certain bard encount'ring on the way,
269 Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
270 As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;
271 Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
272 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
273 Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
274 Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice,
275 Made him observe the subject and the plot,
276 The manners, passions, unities, what not?
277 All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
278 Were but a combat in the lists left out.
279 "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight;
280 "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite."
281 "Not so by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage)
282 "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."
283 So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
284 "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
285 Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
286 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
287 Form short ideas; and offend in arts
288 (As most in manners) by a love to parts.
289 Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
290 And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
291 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
292 One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
293 Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
294 The naked nature and the living grace,
295 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
296 And hide with ornaments their want of art.
297 True wit is nature to advantage dress'd,
298 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd,
299 Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
300 That gives us back the image of our mind.
301As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
302 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
303 For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
304 As bodies perish through excess of blood.
305 Others for language all their care express,
306 And value books, as women men, for dress:
307 Their praise is still--"the style is excellent":
308 The sense, they humbly take upon content.
309 Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
310 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
311 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
312 Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
313 The face of Nature we no more survey,
314 All glares alike, without distinction gay:
315 But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
316 Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
317 It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
318 Expression is the dress of thought, and still
319 Appears more decent, as more suitable;
320 A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
321 Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
322 For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
323 As several garbs with country, town, and court.
324 Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
325 Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
326 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
327 Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
328 Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,
329 These sparks with awkward vanity display
330 What the fine gentleman wore yesterday!
331 And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
332 As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd.
333 In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
334 Alike fantastic, if too new, or old;
335 Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
336 Not yet the last to lay the old aside.
337 But most by numbers judge a poet's song;
338 And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
339 In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
340 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
341 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
342 Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
343 Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
344 These equal syllables alone require,
345 Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire,
346 While expletives their feeble aid do join,
347 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
348 While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
349 With sure returns of still expected rhymes.
350 Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze",
351 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees":
352 If "crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep",
353 The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep".
354 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
355 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
356 A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
357 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
358 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
359 What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
360 And praise the easy vigour of a line,
361 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
362 True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
363 As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
364' Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
365 The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
366 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
367 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
368 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
369 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
370 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
371 The line too labours, and the words move slow;
372 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
373 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
374 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
375 And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
376 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
377 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
378 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
379 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
380 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
381 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
382 The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
383 And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
384 Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
385 Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
386 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
387 That always shows great pride, or little sense;
388 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
389 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
390 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move,
391 For fools admire, but men of sense approve;
392 As things seem large which we through mists descry,
393 Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
394 Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
395 The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
396 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
397 To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
398 Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
399 And force that sun but on a part to shine;
400 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
401 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
402 Which from the first has shone on ages past,
403 Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
404 (Though each may feel increases and decays,
405 And see now clearer and now darker days.)
406 Regard not then if wit be old or new,
407 But blame the false, and value still the true.
408 Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
409 But catch the spreading notion of the town;
410 They reason and conclude by precedent,
411 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
412 Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
413 Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
414 Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
415 That in proud dulness joins with quality,
416 A constant critic at the great man's board,
417 To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
418 What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
419 In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?
420 But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
421 How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
422 Before his sacred name flies every fault,
423 And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
424 The vulgar thus through imitation err;
425 As oft the learn'd by being singular;
426 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
427 By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
428 So Schismatics the plain believers quit,
429 And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
430 Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
431 But always think the last opinion right.
432 A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
433 This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
434 While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
435 Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
436 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
437 And still tomorrow's wiser than today.
438 We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
439 Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
440 Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
441 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;
442 Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
443 And none had sense enough to be confuted:
444 Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,
445 Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane.
446 If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
447 What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
448 Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
449 The current folly proves the ready wit;
450 And authors think their reputation safe
451 Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.
452 Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
453 Still make themselves the measure of mankind;
454 Fondly we think we honour merit then,
455 When we but praise ourselves in other men.
456 Parties in wit attend on those of state,
457 And public faction doubles private hate.
458 Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
459 In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;
460 But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
461 For rising merit will buoy up at last.
462 Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
463 New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
464 Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,
465 Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
466 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue,
467 But like a shadow, proves the substance true;
468 For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
469 Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
470 When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
471 It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
472 But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
473 Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
474 Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
475 His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.
476 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
477 And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes.
478 No longer now that golden age appears,
479 When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years:
480 Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,
481 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;
482 Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
483 And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
484 So when the faithful pencil has design'd
485 Some bright idea of the master's mind,
486 Where a new world leaps out at his command,
487 And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
488 When the ripe colours soften and unite,
489 And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
490 When mellowing years their full perfection give,
491 And each bold figure just begins to live,
492 The treacherous colours the fair art betray,
493 And all the bright creation fades away!
494 Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
495 Atones not for that envy which it brings.
496 In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
497 But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:
498 Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
499 That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
500 What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
501 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
502 Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,
503 And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
504 Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
505 Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
506 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
507 By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!
508 If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
509 Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
510 Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
511 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
512 Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
513 Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too.
514 Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
515 Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
516 And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
517 Contending wits become the sport of fools:
518 But still the worst with most regret commend,
519 For each ill author is as bad a friend.
520 To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
521 Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
522 Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
523 Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
524 Good nature and good sense must ever join;
525 To err is human; to forgive, divine.
526 But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
527 Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain,
528 Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
529 Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
530 No pardon vile obscenity should find,
531 Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
532 But dulness with obscenity must prove
533 As shameful sure as impotence in love.
534 In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
535 Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:
536 When love was all an easy monarch's care;
537 Seldom at council, never in a war:
538 Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;
539 Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:
540 The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
541 And not a mask went unimprov'd away:
542 The modest fan was lifted up no more,
543 And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
544 The following licence of a foreign reign
545 Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
546 Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
547 And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
548 Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,
549 Lest God himself should seem too absolute:
550 Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare,
551 And Vice admired to find a flatt'rer there!
552 Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
553 And the press groan'd with licenc'd blasphemies.
554 These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
555 Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
556 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
557 Will needs mistake an author into vice;
558 All seems infected that th' infected spy,
559 As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
PART 3
560 Learn then what morals critics ought to show,
561 For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
562 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
563 In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:
564 That not alone what to your sense is due,
565 All may allow; but seek your friendship too.
566 Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
567 And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
568 Some positive, persisting fops we know,
569 Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
570 But you, with pleasure own your errors past,
571 And make each day a critic on the last.
572 'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true;
573 Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;
574 Men must be taught as if you taught them not;
575 And things unknown proposed as things forgot.
576 Without good breeding, truth is disapprov'd;
577 That only makes superior sense belov'd.
578 Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
579 For the worst avarice is that of sense.
580 With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
581 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
582 Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
583 Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
584 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take,
585 But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
586 And stares, Tremendous ! with a threatening eye,
587 Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry!
588 Fear most to tax an honourable fool,
589 Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull;
590 Such, without wit, are poets when they please,
591 As without learning they can take degrees.
592 Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires,
593 And flattery to fulsome dedicators,
594 Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
595 Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.
596 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
597 And charitably let the dull be vain:
598 Your silence there is better than your spite,
599 For who can rail so long as they can write?
600 Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,
601 And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
602 False steps but help them to renew the race,
603 As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
604 What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
605 In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
606 Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
607 Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
608 Strain out the last, dull droppings of their sense,
609 And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
610 Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
611 There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.
612 The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
613 With loads of learned lumber in his head,
614 With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
615 And always list'ning to himself appears.
616 All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
617 From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.
618 With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
619 Garth did not write his own Dispensary .
620 Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,
621 Nay show'd his faults--but when would poets mend?
622 No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,
623 Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:
624 Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead:
625 For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
626 Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks;
627 It still looks home, and short excursions makes;
628 But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks;
629 And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
630 Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.
631 But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,
632 Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?
633 Unbias'd, or by favour or by spite;
634 Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;
635 Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere;
636 Modestly bold, and humanly severe?
637 Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
638 And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
639 Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
640 A knowledge both of books and human kind;
641 Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
642 And love to praise, with reason on his side?
643 Such once were critics; such the happy few,
644 Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
645 The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,
646 Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:
647 He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
648 Led by the light of the Mæonian Star.
649 Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
650 Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
651 Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 'twas fit,
652 Who conquer'd nature, should preside o'er wit.
653 Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
654 And without methods talks us into sense,
655 Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
656 The truest notions in the easiest way.
657 He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit,
658 Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
659 Yet judg'd with coolness, though he sung with fire;
660 His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
661 Our critics take a contrary extreme,
662 They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me:
663 Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
664 By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
665 See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,
666 And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!
667 Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
668 The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.
669 In grave Quintilian's copious work we find
670 The justest rules, and clearest method join'd;
671 Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
672 All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace,
673 But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,
674 Still fit for use, and ready at command.
675 Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
676 And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
677 An ardent judge, who zealous in his trust,
678 With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
679 Whose own example strengthens all his laws;
680 And is himself that great sublime he draws.
681 Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd,
682 Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd;
683 Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
684 And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew;
685 From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom,
686 And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
687 With tyranny, then superstition join'd,
688 As that the body, this enslav'd the mind;
689 Much was believ'd, but little understood,
690 And to be dull was constru'd to be good;
691 A second deluge learning thus o'er-run,
692 And the monks finish'd what the Goths begun.
693 At length Erasmus, that great, injur'd name,
694 (The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!)
695 Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,
696 And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.
697 But see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days,
698 Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays!
699 Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread,
700 Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head!
701 Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
702 Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;
703 With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
704 A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung.
705 Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow
706 The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow:
707 Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
708 As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!
709 But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd,
710 Their ancient bounds the banished Muses pass'd;
711 Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance;
712 But critic-learning flourish'd most in France.
713 The rules a nation born to serve, obeys,
714 And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.
715 But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd,
716 And kept unconquer'd, and uncivilis'd,
717 Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
718 We still defied the Romans, as of old.
719 Yet some there were, among the sounder few
720 Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
721 Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
722 And here restor'd wit's fundamental laws.
723 Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell
724 "Nature's chief master-piece is writing well."
725 Such was Roscommon--not more learn'd than good,
726 With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;
727 To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
728 And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.
729 Such late was Walsh--the Muse's judge and friend,
730 Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
731 To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
732 The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
733 This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
734 This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:
735 The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,
736 Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing,
737 (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
738 But in low numbers short excursions tries:
739 Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view,
740 The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:
741 Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame,
742 Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
743 Averse alike to flatter, or offend,
744 Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
An Essay on Criticism
Si quid novisti rectius istis,
Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum
[If you have come to know any precept more correct than these,
share it with me, brilliant one; if not, use these with me] (Horace, Epistle I.6.67)
PART 1
1 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill2 Appear in writing or in judging ill;
3 But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
4 To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
5 Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
6 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
7 A fool might once himself alone expose,
8 Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
9 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
10 Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
11 In poets as true genius is but rare,
12 True taste as seldom is the critic's share;
13 Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
14 These born to judge, as well as those to write.
15 Let such teach others who themselves excel,
16 And censure freely who have written well.
17 Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
18 But are not critics to their judgment too?
19 Yet if we look more closely we shall find
20 Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind;
21 Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
22 The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
23 But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
24 Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
25 So by false learning is good sense defac'd;
26 Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
27 And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
28 In search of wit these lose their common sense,
29 And then turn critics in their own defence:
30 Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
31 Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite.
32 All fools have still an itching to deride,
33 And fain would be upon the laughing side.
34 If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
35 There are, who judge still worse than he can write.
36 Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd,
37 Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last;
38 Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
39 As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
40 Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle
41 As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
42 Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
43 Their generation's so equivocal:
44 To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require,
45 Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
46 But you who seek to give and merit fame,
47 And justly bear a critic's noble name,
48 Be sure your self and your own reach to know,
49 How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
50 Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
51 And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.
52 Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
53 And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit:
54 As on the land while here the ocean gains,
55 In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
56 Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
57 The solid pow'r of understanding fails;
58 Where beams of warm imagination play,
59 The memory's soft figures melt away.
60 One science only will one genius fit;
61 So vast is art, so narrow human wit:
62 Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
63 But oft in those, confin'd to single parts.
64 Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before,
65 By vain ambition still to make them more;
66 Each might his sev'ral province well command,
67 Would all but stoop to what they understand.
68 First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
69 By her just standard, which is still the same:
70 Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,
71 One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,
72 Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
73 At once the source, and end, and test of art.
74 Art from that fund each just supply provides,
75 Works without show, and without pomp presides:
76 In some fair body thus th' informing soul
77 With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
78 Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
79 Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
80 Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,
81 Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
82 For wit and judgment often are at strife,
83 Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
84' Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
85 Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;
86 The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
87 Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
88 Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd,
89 Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd;
90 Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd
91 By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.
92 Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,
93 When to repress, and when indulge our flights:
94 High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,
95 And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
96 Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
97 And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
98 Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n,
99 She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
100 The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
101 And taught the world with reason to admire.
102 Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
103 To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd;
104 But following wits from that intention stray'd;
105 Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;
106 Against the poets their own arms they turn'd,
107 Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.
108 So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
109 By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
110 Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
111 Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
112 Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
113 Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they:
114 Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
115 Write dull receipts how poems may be made:
116 These leave the sense, their learning to display,
117 And those explain the meaning quite away.
118 You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
119 Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character;
120 His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page;
121 Religion, country, genius of his age:
122 Without all these at once before your eyes,
123 Cavil you may, but never criticise.
124 Be Homer's works your study and delight,
125 Read them by day, and meditate by night;
126 Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
127 And trace the Muses upward to their spring;
128 Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
129 And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
130 When first young Maro in his boundless mind
131 A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
132 Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
133 And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
134 But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
135 Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
136 Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design,
137 And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
138 As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
139 Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
140 To copy nature is to copy them.
141 Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare,
142 For there's a happiness as well as care.
143 Music resembles poetry, in each
144 Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
145 And which a master-hand alone can reach.
146 If, where the rules not far enough extend,
147 (Since rules were made but to promote their end)
148 Some lucky LICENCE answers to the full
149 Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
150 Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
151 May boldly deviate from the common track.
152 Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
153 And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
154 From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
155 And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
156 Which, without passing through the judgment, gains
157 The heart, and all its end at once attains.
158 In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes,
159 Which out of nature's common order rise,
160 The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.
161 But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade,
162 (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made)
163 Moderns, beware! or if you must offend
164 Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end;
165 Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need,
166 And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
167 The critic else proceeds without remorse,
168 Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
169 I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
170 Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.
171 Some figures monstrous and misshap'd appear,
172 Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
173 Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
174 Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
175 A prudent chief not always must display
176 His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array,
177 But with th' occasion and the place comply,
178 Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.
179 Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
180 Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
181 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands,
182 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands,
183 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage,
184 Destructive war, and all-involving age.
185 See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring!
186 Hear, in all tongues consenting pæans ring!
187 In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
188 And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind!
189 Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days;
190 Immortal heirs of universal praise!
191 Whose honours with increase of ages grow,
192 As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
193 Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
194 And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
195 Oh may some spark of your celestial fire
196 The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
197 (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights;
198 Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
199 To teach vain wits a science little known,
200 T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!
PART 2
201 Of all the causes which conspire to blind
202 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
203 What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
204 Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
205 Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
206 She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
207 For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
208 What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind;
209 Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
210 And fills up all the mighty void of sense!
211 If once right reason drives that cloud away,
212 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day;
213 Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
214 Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.
215 A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
216 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
217 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
218 And drinking largely sobers us again.
219 Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
220 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
221 While from the bounded level of our mind,
222 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
223 But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
224 New, distant scenes of endless science rise!
225 So pleas'd at first, the tow'ring Alps we try,
226 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
227 Th' eternal snows appear already past,
228 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
229 But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
230 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
231 Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,
232 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
233 A perfect judge will read each work of wit
234 With the same spirit that its author writ,
235 Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find,
236 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
237 Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
238 The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
239 But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
240 Correctly cold, and regularly low,
241That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
242 We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
243 In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
244 Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
245 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
246 But the joint force and full result of all.
247 Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
248 (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!'
249 No single parts unequally surprise;
250 All comes united to th' admiring eyes;
251 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
252 The whole at once is bold, and regular.
253 Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
254 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
255 In ev'ry work regard the writer's end,
256 Since none can compass more than they intend;
257 And if the means be just, the conduct true,
258 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
259 As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
260 T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:
261 Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,
262 For not to know such trifles, is a praise.
263 Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
264 Still make the whole depend upon a part:
265 They talk of principles, but notions prize,
266 And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.
267 Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say,
268 A certain bard encount'ring on the way,
269 Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
270 As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;
271 Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
272 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
273 Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
274 Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice,
275 Made him observe the subject and the plot,
276 The manners, passions, unities, what not?
277 All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
278 Were but a combat in the lists left out.
279 "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight;
280 "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite."
281 "Not so by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage)
282 "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."
283 So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
284 "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
285 Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
286 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
287 Form short ideas; and offend in arts
288 (As most in manners) by a love to parts.
289 Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
290 And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
291 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
292 One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
293 Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
294 The naked nature and the living grace,
295 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
296 And hide with ornaments their want of art.
297 True wit is nature to advantage dress'd,
298 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd,
299 Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
300 That gives us back the image of our mind.
301As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
302 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
303 For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
304 As bodies perish through excess of blood.
305 Others for language all their care express,
306 And value books, as women men, for dress:
307 Their praise is still--"the style is excellent":
308 The sense, they humbly take upon content.
309 Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
310 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
311 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
312 Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
313 The face of Nature we no more survey,
314 All glares alike, without distinction gay:
315 But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
316 Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
317 It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
318 Expression is the dress of thought, and still
319 Appears more decent, as more suitable;
320 A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
321 Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
322 For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
323 As several garbs with country, town, and court.
324 Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
325 Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
326 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
327 Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
328 Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,
329 These sparks with awkward vanity display
330 What the fine gentleman wore yesterday!
331 And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
332 As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd.
333 In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
334 Alike fantastic, if too new, or old;
335 Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
336 Not yet the last to lay the old aside.
337 But most by numbers judge a poet's song;
338 And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
339 In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
340 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
341 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
342 Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
343 Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
344 These equal syllables alone require,
345 Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire,
346 While expletives their feeble aid do join,
347 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
348 While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
349 With sure returns of still expected rhymes.
350 Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze",
351 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees":
352 If "crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep",
353 The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep".
354 Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
355 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
356 A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
357 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
358 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
359 What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
360 And praise the easy vigour of a line,
361 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
362 True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
363 As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
364' Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
365 The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
366 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
367 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
368 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
369 The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
370 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
371 The line too labours, and the words move slow;
372 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
373 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
374 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
375 And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
376 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
377 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
378 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
379 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
380 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
381 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
382 The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
383 And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
384 Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
385 Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
386 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
387 That always shows great pride, or little sense;
388 Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
389 Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
390 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move,
391 For fools admire, but men of sense approve;
392 As things seem large which we through mists descry,
393 Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
394 Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
395 The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
396 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
397 To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
398 Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
399 And force that sun but on a part to shine;
400 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
401 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
402 Which from the first has shone on ages past,
403 Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
404 (Though each may feel increases and decays,
405 And see now clearer and now darker days.)
406 Regard not then if wit be old or new,
407 But blame the false, and value still the true.
408 Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
409 But catch the spreading notion of the town;
410 They reason and conclude by precedent,
411 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
412 Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
413 Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
414 Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
415 That in proud dulness joins with quality,
416 A constant critic at the great man's board,
417 To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
418 What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
419 In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?
420 But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
421 How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
422 Before his sacred name flies every fault,
423 And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
424 The vulgar thus through imitation err;
425 As oft the learn'd by being singular;
426 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
427 By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
428 So Schismatics the plain believers quit,
429 And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
430 Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
431 But always think the last opinion right.
432 A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
433 This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
434 While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
435 Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
436 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
437 And still tomorrow's wiser than today.
438 We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
439 Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
440 Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
441 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;
442 Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
443 And none had sense enough to be confuted:
444 Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,
445 Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane.
446 If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
447 What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
448 Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
449 The current folly proves the ready wit;
450 And authors think their reputation safe
451 Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.
452 Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
453 Still make themselves the measure of mankind;
454 Fondly we think we honour merit then,
455 When we but praise ourselves in other men.
456 Parties in wit attend on those of state,
457 And public faction doubles private hate.
458 Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
459 In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;
460 But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
461 For rising merit will buoy up at last.
462 Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
463 New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
464 Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,
465 Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
466 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue,
467 But like a shadow, proves the substance true;
468 For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
469 Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
470 When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
471 It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
472 But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
473 Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
474 Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
475 His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.
476 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
477 And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes.
478 No longer now that golden age appears,
479 When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years:
480 Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,
481 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;
482 Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
483 And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
484 So when the faithful pencil has design'd
485 Some bright idea of the master's mind,
486 Where a new world leaps out at his command,
487 And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
488 When the ripe colours soften and unite,
489 And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
490 When mellowing years their full perfection give,
491 And each bold figure just begins to live,
492 The treacherous colours the fair art betray,
493 And all the bright creation fades away!
494 Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
495 Atones not for that envy which it brings.
496 In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
497 But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:
498 Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
499 That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
500 What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
501 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
502 Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,
503 And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
504 Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
505 Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
506 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
507 By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!
508 If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
509 Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
510 Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
511 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
512 Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
513 Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too.
514 Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
515 Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
516 And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
517 Contending wits become the sport of fools:
518 But still the worst with most regret commend,
519 For each ill author is as bad a friend.
520 To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
521 Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
522 Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
523 Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
524 Good nature and good sense must ever join;
525 To err is human; to forgive, divine.
526 But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
527 Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain,
528 Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
529 Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
530 No pardon vile obscenity should find,
531 Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
532 But dulness with obscenity must prove
533 As shameful sure as impotence in love.
534 In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
535 Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:
536 When love was all an easy monarch's care;
537 Seldom at council, never in a war:
538 Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;
539 Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:
540 The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
541 And not a mask went unimprov'd away:
542 The modest fan was lifted up no more,
543 And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
544 The following licence of a foreign reign
545 Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
546 Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
547 And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
548 Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,
549 Lest God himself should seem too absolute:
550 Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare,
551 And Vice admired to find a flatt'rer there!
552 Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
553 And the press groan'd with licenc'd blasphemies.
554 These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
555 Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
556 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
557 Will needs mistake an author into vice;
558 All seems infected that th' infected spy,
559 As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
PART 3
560 Learn then what morals critics ought to show,
561 For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
562 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
563 In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:
564 That not alone what to your sense is due,
565 All may allow; but seek your friendship too.
566 Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
567 And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
568 Some positive, persisting fops we know,
569 Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
570 But you, with pleasure own your errors past,
571 And make each day a critic on the last.
572 'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true;
573 Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;
574 Men must be taught as if you taught them not;
575 And things unknown proposed as things forgot.
576 Without good breeding, truth is disapprov'd;
577 That only makes superior sense belov'd.
578 Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
579 For the worst avarice is that of sense.
580 With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
581 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
582 Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
583 Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
584 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take,
585 But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
586 And stares, Tremendous ! with a threatening eye,
587 Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry!
588 Fear most to tax an honourable fool,
589 Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull;
590 Such, without wit, are poets when they please,
591 As without learning they can take degrees.
592 Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires,
593 And flattery to fulsome dedicators,
594 Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
595 Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.
596 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
597 And charitably let the dull be vain:
598 Your silence there is better than your spite,
599 For who can rail so long as they can write?
600 Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,
601 And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
602 False steps but help them to renew the race,
603 As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
604 What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
605 In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
606 Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
607 Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
608 Strain out the last, dull droppings of their sense,
609 And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
610 Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
611 There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.
612 The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
613 With loads of learned lumber in his head,
614 With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
615 And always list'ning to himself appears.
616 All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
617 From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.
618 With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
619 Garth did not write his own Dispensary .
620 Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,
621 Nay show'd his faults--but when would poets mend?
622 No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,
623 Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:
624 Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead:
625 For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
626 Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks;
627 It still looks home, and short excursions makes;
628 But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks;
629 And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
630 Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.
631 But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,
632 Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?
633 Unbias'd, or by favour or by spite;
634 Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;
635 Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere;
636 Modestly bold, and humanly severe?
637 Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
638 And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
639 Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
640 A knowledge both of books and human kind;
641 Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
642 And love to praise, with reason on his side?
643 Such once were critics; such the happy few,
644 Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
645 The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,
646 Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:
647 He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
648 Led by the light of the Mæonian Star.
649 Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
650 Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
651 Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 'twas fit,
652 Who conquer'd nature, should preside o'er wit.
653 Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
654 And without methods talks us into sense,
655 Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
656 The truest notions in the easiest way.
657 He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit,
658 Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
659 Yet judg'd with coolness, though he sung with fire;
660 His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
661 Our critics take a contrary extreme,
662 They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me:
663 Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
664 By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
665 See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,
666 And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!
667 Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
668 The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.
669 In grave Quintilian's copious work we find
670 The justest rules, and clearest method join'd;
671 Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
672 All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace,
673 But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,
674 Still fit for use, and ready at command.
675 Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
676 And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
677 An ardent judge, who zealous in his trust,
678 With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
679 Whose own example strengthens all his laws;
680 And is himself that great sublime he draws.
681 Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd,
682 Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd;
683 Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
684 And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew;
685 From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom,
686 And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
687 With tyranny, then superstition join'd,
688 As that the body, this enslav'd the mind;
689 Much was believ'd, but little understood,
690 And to be dull was constru'd to be good;
691 A second deluge learning thus o'er-run,
692 And the monks finish'd what the Goths begun.
693 At length Erasmus, that great, injur'd name,
694 (The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!)
695 Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,
696 And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.
697 But see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days,
698 Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays!
699 Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread,
700 Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head!
701 Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
702 Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;
703 With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
704 A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung.
705 Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow
706 The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow:
707 Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
708 As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!
709 But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd,
710 Their ancient bounds the banished Muses pass'd;
711 Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance;
712 But critic-learning flourish'd most in France.
713 The rules a nation born to serve, obeys,
714 And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.
715 But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd,
716 And kept unconquer'd, and uncivilis'd,
717 Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
718 We still defied the Romans, as of old.
719 Yet some there were, among the sounder few
720 Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
721 Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
722 And here restor'd wit's fundamental laws.
723 Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell
724 "Nature's chief master-piece is writing well."
725 Such was Roscommon--not more learn'd than good,
726 With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;
727 To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
728 And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.
729 Such late was Walsh--the Muse's judge and friend,
730 Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
731 To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
732 The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
733 This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
734 This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:
735 The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,
736 Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing,
737 (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
738 But in low numbers short excursions tries:
739 Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view,
740 The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:
741 Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame,
742 Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
743 Averse alike to flatter, or offend,
744 Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.